


When the Earth Tries to Shake You Off

by oleanderhoney



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Happy Ending I promise!, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, Paternal!Lestrade, Rain, Tears, againsosorry, eventual Sherlolly, holy crap where did this come from?, this is heavy Doc, why do i do these things to myself?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oleanderhoney/pseuds/oleanderhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Hysterically, he wonders if this is the same thing: withdrawal from John. If so, he prays to whatever deity was listening that it would take him this time, because he didn’t know if he could make it through to the other side. He didn’t know if he wanted to."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was April, and the rain in London was pouring down in sheets, beating a steady tattoo against the gutters of 221B. 

Sherlock sits in his chair, his blue dressing gown hanging off one shoulder exposing his ratty pyjama shirt; the one with the hole near the collar that John had darned at least a half a dozen times for him in the past. With one long pale finger, he traces the stitching absently at the memory.

_“I don’t know why you don’t just get a new one, Sherlock,” John said as he pulled the thread through._

_“I don’t want a new one. I like this one. Besides, aren’t you always going on about saving money?” Sherlock said dismissively, peering into his microscope._

_“Oh_ now _you start to take my financial advice?”_

_“Better late than never.”_

_“Sherlock, you just bought a pair of shoes that cost over two hundred quid because your other one’s got a bit of mud on them,” John said breaking the thread with his teeth and setting the needle on the table. He takes off his glasses and inspects his handiwork with a fond smile. It didn’t need to be said that the reason Sherlock refused to part with the shirt was because John had bought it for him as a joke when he was in Dublin at a medical conference all those years ago. It was rather juvenile, with a slew of random scientific equations plastered to it for effect, (‘Really, John, given the subject, E=MC2 is hardly in context.’) the witty phrase “It is Scientifically Proven that I Am the Centre of the Universe” brandished across the chest. (‘Not the point, Sherlock.’)_

_“It wasn’t just a ‘bit of mud’ John. We traipsed through a_ swamp _if you recall,” Sherlock said arching an eyebrow._

_“Yeah, yeah,” John grumbled affectionately and folded the threadbare shirt. “Shall I make tea?”_

Now, Sherlock pulls at the collar, twisting until the seam pops and unravels so the hole is big enough to stick his fingers through. 

A peal of thunder clashes over head with darksome fury, resonating in his hollow chest. 

He stares numbly at the empty chair across from him.

 _John’s_ chair.

He hasn’t left the flat in eight days, afraid of being delivered back into the cold cruel arms of the world he had known for so long before he had a friend. Before John.

The torrent lashes violently against the window, and it’s almost akin to the anger he feels constantly simmering under his flesh that always seems stretched too tight over his bones these days.

He leaps to his feet and flings open the window, the wind gusting through and disturbing various stacks of paper, and sheet music. He bends forward at the waist as far as he can and lets the deluge claim him, the frigid rain beating down on his head and the back of his shoulders like shrapnel. 

Lightening arcs across the sky, and Sherlock gives a shattering howl in time with the crash of thunder just so he can feel something in his chest other than grief and agony for a change. However, this catharsis has the opposite effect and instead of relief, the liturgical _kyrie_ ripping itself from his throat is like the final crack in the ice. Before Sherlock realises, he’s sinking to the floor with his back to the wall, his knees curling up close to his body in attempt to hold himself together. His face is wet with both rain and tears and he buries his head in his hands and heaves over and over, the air in the room seeming to wane by the second. He’s so busy trying his hardest not to fall apart completely, that he doesn’t notice someone enter the flat with a startled cry, dropping a few bags of shopping on the floor, and rushing instantly to his side.

“Sherlock?” a voice says. A set of strong hands grip his shoulders, and for a moment Sherlock’s eyes fly open at the familiarity of it all. But when he registers Lestrade’s pinched and worried face, he slams them shut again. For a moment he thought —

“No, no, _no_ ,” Sherlock moans, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter.

“Sherlock, look at me son,” Lestrade says in a gentle but firm voice. Sherlock’s surprised at the grounding effect it has on him, and despite the crushing sorrow he manages to lift his head.

“He’s _gone_ , Greg. And I — I can’t —” he grinds out.

“I know. I know,” Lestrade soothes, and before Sherlock has a chance to react, he’s being pulled into a fierce embrace. 

A distant part of him knows he should be mortified; ashamed at being seen at his lowest, but it’s not like Lestrade hasn’t seen him like this before. So because of this, and because of the fact that the Earth’s orbit seems intent on shaking him off its surface, he clings back just as hard, because if he doesn’t he will be aimless and adrift in that horrible vacuum of dark and space.

“You’re burning up,” Lestrade says after Sherlock’s trembling has died down some. He gently leans Sherlock back against the wall so he can get a better look at him, and brushes the hair back from his forehead so he can lay a cool palm against his fevered skin. Sherlock’s eyes close briefly at the sensation, and his shoulders droop with exhaustion. “Can you get up?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but lets himself be hoisted to his feet by a strong arm around his waist. “There’s a lad,” Lestrade says softly and they make their way down the hall towards Sherlock’s room. They don’t get very far, however, when Sherlock suddenly veers right and scrambles across the bathroom tiles, barely making it to the toilet. He retches over and over voiding the meager contents of his stomach until he is reduced to dry heaving, his insides curdling.

Lestrade comes over and sits on the edge of the tub and rubs gentle circles into his back. It is a familiar routine from when he was shaking and sweating the chemicals out of his system as withdrawal tore through his body. Hysterically, he wonders if this is the same thing: withdrawal from John. If so, he prays to whatever deity was listening that it would take him this time, because he didn’t know if he could make it through to the other side. He didn’t know if he wanted to.

Finally, the cramping in his stomach eases, and he slumps bonelessly against the wall of the tub. Lestrade stands and retrieves the flannel draped over the edge of the sink, and runs it under the faucet. He sits back down and places the cool rag against the back of Sherlock’s neck despite the fact that his hair and his clothes are still soaked from the rain and cooling against his skin.

“Hit and run. How _unfair_ is that?” Sherlock says, his voice wrecked. “He survived a war only to get killed by some _idiot in a sports car.”_

Lestrade doesn’t say anything, he just turns the rag over to the cool side and puts a hand on his shoulder as the trembling returns. Sherlock doesn’t know how long they sit there, but the next thing he’s aware of is Lestrade sitting him on the edge of his bed, and easing his wet dressing gown off his shoulders.

“Here,” he says reaching for Sherlock’s shirt.

“No,” he says weakly pushing Lestrade’s hands away.

“Sherlock. You’ll freeze.”

“I don’t _care,”_ he says his voice breaking at the end entirely spent due to emotion and the acid from his stomach.

“All right. All right,” Lestrade says, and guides him to lay down. He immediately curls up on his side wishing he could fold in on himself until he disappeared. Lestrade smoothes the duvet over him. “It’s gonna get better, son. I promise,” he whispers, but Sherlock doesn’t hear already half way gone to sleep. 

The last thing he feels is a gentle hand carding through his hair as he sinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I am leaving this as a one-shot for now, but I have an idea for multiple chapters. But this was tough for me to write, and if I don't really get any feedback I'm not sure if I will continue. Thoughts? 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. 
> 
> Again I apologise.
> 
> *gives snuggles and hot cocoa*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Because that's the greatest thing you taught me, did you know?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, so I feel like I just can't leave poor Sherlock the way he was and I am going to continue with my thoughts for this story even though it's pretty difficult for me to write. A lot of what Sherlock feels is based on my own experiences with grief, and so I apologise in advance if this is slow going.
> 
> Feedback helps. Or kudos. Or hugs...wah. I'm so sorry.

Sherlock sits, riveted in his armchair as John’s face comes on the television. He’s sitting at the desk, the rest of the flat behind him, as he adjusts something off to the side.

“Is it —?” he squints into the camera, “it is, good. Okay,” he says and takes off his glasses, combing his fingernails through the greying hair at his temples to flatten the indentations left behind. Sherlock almost smiles at seeing this nuance, so achingly familiar, but stops it from reaching his face when he remembers that this isn’t the real John. Not even close.

The John on screen clears his throat. “Sherlock.”

Despite the fact that this wasn’t John, Sherlock can’t help but lean forward in his seat, his breath hitching at the way John says his name.

“If you are watching this — I hope to god you aren’t — but if you are, then I am so, so sorry,” John’s voice wavers here, and Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. “I am so sorry I had to leave you, and believe me, if I had my way I wouldn’t have done. Always was a stubborn bastard,” he chuckles. He clears his throat again, sobering. “But I – I wanted to leave you with something. Something to hold on to, because I know what it’s like…” he trails off and Sherlock knows that he’s remembering that day all those years ago. The day at St. Bart’s. The vice in his chest is back, and it takes all of his willpower to keep looking into his friend’s eyes.

“And I know you. I know that right now, if I’m — if I’m not _there,_ with you now, I know you will have stopped,” he purses his lips, and his eyes take on a distinct sheen. “And I’m here to bully you into not stopping, basically,” he huffs a laugh and wipes a hand over his face, “because, you can’t stop. What you’re doing. You’re _important,_ Sherlock, and I know half the time you don’t even realise. Nobody can do the things you can do. I know you know this, but right now I think you need reminding. You need to be reminded of how much _good_ you’ve done. All of it. You’ve left a mark on this world that most people aspire to whether or not you think it matters. And I don’t just mean in the big ways, solving crimes and locking away criminals, but I mean in the small ways too. Sometimes I think that’s even more important.” 

John pauses here and takes a steadying breath. “You’ve… _changed_ my life, Sherlock Holmes. And I am so _grateful_ that I got to spend it by your side. I was…so alone, and I owe you so much.” Another pause. He frowns and looks down, sniffing lightly. He swallows hard before looking up again, eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I am so grateful that you let me into the whirlwind of your life even if it was just to be your sounding board, or punching bag…or hired gun,” a smile here, “or even your nagging, mollycoddling, mother hen from time to time. You gave me _purpose_ again when I had none. You gave me someone who actually needed me, and I am so sorry I can’t be there for you now,” his voice trembles, and the pain in Sherlock’s chest is threatening to shatter his bones. He sucks in a breath, and then another. _I still need you, John. Why did you leave me, why?_

“But I didn’t want to go without telling you — telling you how much you mean to me,” the tears flow freely down his face now, “without telling you how necessary it is for you to keep living, like I did. Do this for me, Sherlock. Keep breathing. Keep composing at three in the morning; keep up with your insane, unsanitary experiments; visit Mrs. Hudson; keep doing The Work. Keep yelling at the telly for me because you know how much it makes me laugh,” he pulls in a sharp breath and tries to laugh through the tears but it comes out as more of a sob. Sherlock feels as if he’s shaking apart. “And don’t ever forget how much you are loved. All right, Sherlock? Don’t you dare forget.” John’s voice is ragged by the end, and he wipes a hand over his face once more, his tear tracks shining like silver. 

“Because that’s the greatest thing you taught me, did you know? Greater than how to identify an airline pilot by his left thumb and a software designer by his ruddy tie --you taught me what this stupid sentimental word means in this utterly messed up world, and I couldn’t go without you knowing. I love you, Sherlock. With all my heart. You were the best friend anyone could ever ask for, and I will miss you, terribly.” He presses his lips into a thin smile, nodding once. His hand reaches for the camera, but before it does, Sherlock grabs the remote and pauses the image.

He slowly unfolds himself and walks up to the television. His hand reaches out as if to touch the image of John’s face, but he stops and let his arm fall back to his side.

“When?” he says without turning around.

Mycroft, who had been sitting quietly on the sofa the whole time doesn’t ask for clarification. He rises to his feet adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “John came to me with this six months ago with the added request that in the event of his death you also attend his funeral.”

Sherlock scoffs bitterly. Of course John would say that. He knew Sherlock too well. (He knew Sherlock better than anyone.) He knew that the last thing he wanted to do would be to leave the flat and attend a funeral with dozens of people who would cry and try to hug him when they didn’t really know or care about John at all. He knew how angry Sherlock would be at everyone, and how wrong, wrong, _wrong_ it was to have to put his only friend, his _family_ into the cold hard ground…

“You are going, correct?” Mycroft says. Sherlock takes a deep breath and tilts his head towards the ceiling, blinking rapidly.

“Just tell me when it is and I’ll be there,” he says, voice breaking like spun glass.

“Very well. I’ll make all the necessary arrangements.”

“Now leave,” Sherlock says.

He doesn’t turn around as he hears his brother’s footsteps recede and carry him out of the flat. He stares at the screen for an hour until his legs ache from standing so long with his knees locked, and it feels like gravity is trying to crush him. 

He keeps the television on all night as he curls up on the sofa, willing sleep to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll make it better I promise. *cries*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What do you need?” she whispers, and suddenly he is rocketed back to that night when she gave him everything before he fell and gave up his life for the people he cared most about. He is humbled that here she is again, ready to sacrifice all that she is; for the sake of salvaging the wreckage._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being patient with this. Your comments have been beautiful.

The service was held in a church. 

Sherlock didn’t know whose idea that was. Probably something to do with John’s Catholic background from when he was a child. John didn’t really have a family any more, both parents deceased. All that was left was Harry, and she was sitting in the front pew surrounded by colleagues and friends, and her new fiancée. Right now she was clinging to her lover like she was about to drown, and softly sobbing into a handkerchief. It was all theatrics of course. Harry and John had a falling out years ago. She soaked up the attention like a sponge, and it made Sherlock’s mouth taste of bile. It was disgusting. If she really knew her brother, she would have known that he didn’t want all of these _strangers_ attending like it was some sort of dog-and-pony show. He’s exceedingly glad to know that her new marriage wouldn’t even last a month.

Sherlock sits in the back away from everyone.

Greg does the eulogy, and for this he is extremely grateful. He knows all the things that Sherlock would want to say but can’t bring himself to, and so he says them for the both of them. Because he knows — knew John. He knows that Sherlock is selfish in his grief and wouldn’t dignify these people with knowing how much he means — meant…

Meant. 

How much John meant to him.

_‘I was...so alone, and I owe you so much.’_

He gets up and leaves when Harry makes her way to the podium, her eyes swimming with vodka no doubt, as well as false tears.

…

Of course it was raining. It always rains at funerals. Then again, if the sun had been out it would have been even more hateful. Like some kind of mockery. It’s right that the sun doesn’t shine today.

Sherlock turns his coat collar up against the slight wind and looks on at a distance to where everyone is gathered around the gleaming mahogany coffin as they lower it into the ground. He can’t bring himself to get any closer with all of those people around, and waits until they have dispersed before making his way over.

He comes up short, however, when he notices someone else had the same idea as him.

He watches by his spot next to the statue of St. Anthony as Molly approaches John’s grave with a single white rose. He can tell she’s speaking, but she is in profile, and he can’t make out the words, only that she is crying; the tears on her face evident even in the light rain. He closes the distance between them, and comes up beside her, his hands in his pockets. He can tell she knows it’s him based on the way she tilts her head. Their shoulders brush and he is immensely grateful for the silence.

“You kept it?” Molly says quietly after a while. She indicates his old black marble headstone standing silently next to John’s grey one.

“Yes,” he says. “Seemed prudent that I should keep it. It’s a good plot.”

“It’s nice,” Molly says observing the canopy of trees above them. “I’d thought he’d be buried with his wife,” she says.

“He wouldn’t let them put Mary in a box. He had her cremated,” Sherlock replies. She nods and bushes a tear from her cheek. That was the thing about Molly; her tears fell silently and softly. He was grateful of it now. 

She tosses the rose down into the grave, and Sherlock watches as it lands on top along with all of the others. After a moment he turns to her. She looks back at him with sad brown eyes, and the question he wants to ask her suddenly dies on his lips. She seems to understand, however, and she tentatively reaches out to take his gloved hand. He closes his eyes at the gesture, hating himself for needing her kindness and wanting her presence. 

Finally, after swallowing around the lump in his throat, he says, “What were you saying to him?” It comes out broken and hushed.

“I was telling him how grateful I was that he was my friend. That he helped me through my brother’s death the way he did. And that I was sorry it took Mary's sickness for him to understand how to return that kind of compassion.” She stops here as another tear rolls down her cheek. “And I…I thanked him for being there for you.”

He looks at her then, and sees the sincerity in her expression. It’s a familiar look, one that he’d thought he’d never see again; it’s the look that is currently still on the television screen, frozen in time.

_‘And don’t ever forget how much you are loved. All right Sherlock? Don’t you dare forget.’_

He’s not even aware he’s sinking to his knees until Molly’s warm hands come up to cradle his face. He can feel the hole in his chest and how it aches, and he wants to cry, or sob, or scream, but finds that he can’t remember how. His face contorts into a grimace, his mouth hanging open in a silent wail, and he knows the thunder in his head won’t ever be quieted again…

Molly presses her forehead against his, and the tears he wants to shed flow down her face. He takes a breath, forcing the air into his lungs.

“I know. I know,” she says over and over, and she rocks them back and forth. They cling to each other in the rain, the cold only being staved off by the shared heat of their bodies.

“I – I can’t go back there by myself, Molly,” he confesses, and he hates himself for his weakness. However, it’s easier to bear when his face is buried in the duskiness of her neck and shoulder. “But I can’t bear to be anywhere else.” She gathers him to her even tighter. Her lips press against his ear, and he can smell the scent of rose hips and chamomile.

“What do you need?” she whispers, and suddenly he is rocketed back to that night when she gave him everything before he fell and gave up his life for the people he cared most about. He is humbled that here she is again, ready to sacrifice all that she is; for the sake of salvaging the wreckage.

 _“You,”_ he breathes. He puts his hand over her heart, and the solid beat anchors him to the spinning Earth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You have always, always counted and I hate John for dying to get me to see. Is it okay to hate that? To hate the fact that so much_ time _has been_ wasted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about healing. More to come. Thank you all so so much for reading. Oh and btw, the tune Molly hums is 'I Will Follow You Into the Dark' by Death Cab for Cutie. I recommend you listen to it. It's a great song, and kind of sums up John and Sherlock's relationship as well as Molly and Sherlock's. It's just perfect.

Sherlock stares down at the remote in his hand.

“You can do it, Sherlock,” Molly’s encouraging voice comes up from behind him. His temper flares, and he whips around.

“It’s just an image!” he yells making her flinch. She doesn’t back away, however, simply holds her ground. “It’s just pixels and random bits of light transmitted through computer chips and run along wires to present an image on the screen, a screen made of cells, and plasma and electrical energy! Pressing this button is hardly equivalent to scaling a – a _fucking mountain,”_ he snarls. He’s trembling in rage, and his knuckles turn white as he grips the remote even tighter. 

He likes the fact that he let the brass swear word fly. It’s completely unlike him, and it feels good as it punches out of his lungs; proof that John’s influence is everywhere, in every corner of him. It’s not losing if he keeps him alive like this. It won’t be losing if he turns off the television. He tires not to dwell on the fact that this logic is hollow and unconvincing. _“God damn it,”_ he hisses turning back to the screen. John’s face smiles back, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his tears shining in their depths. He feels Molly’s hand come to rest lightly between his shoulders. “This isn’t John,” he says jabbing his other hand at the television for emphasis before letting it fall back to his side again. “It never will be.”

He raises his arm and points the remote at the screen. He hits the button, and the image disappears with a flicker, and then blackness.

The remote clatters to the floor, and he turns into Molly’s warm embrace. One arm is wrapped tightly around his waist, while the other cups the back of his head as he finds solace in her shoulder. He feels numb inside and out: cold. He feels as if he barely has the strength to hold her back, but he does, lightly at first as if his arms are remembering how to function, and then he is holding her impossibly tight against him as he struggles to breathe.

She cards her fingers through his hair, and doesn’t waste time with murmuring meaningless soothing nonsense knowing that words don’t matter in this metaphysical grey. She remains silent, and not for the first time in the month that she’s been with him does he wonder what he did to deserve her unprecedented grace.

He doesn’t even realise how far he’s retreated inside of himself until it vaguely occurs to him that Molly is humming something under her breath. She holds him, and sways with the soft melody.

Bit by bit her hushed voice thaws him, and for once he feels warmth bloom in the centre of his chest. It’s a healing sort of feeling, like a balm coating the ragged and raw edges of his tattered heart beneath his ribs. He can feel the tension in his back and neck ease as he moves with her in the middle of the sitting room, rocking back and forth almost but not quite, dancing.

“It’s late,” she murmurs after a while. Her humming has stopped but they continue to turn slowly in each other’s arms.

He pulls back slightly so he can look at her. Her brown eyes sparkle back, and in that moment there is just _so much_ he wants to say. He wants to ask her why she’s still here; why she keeps coming by the flat day after day even if it’s just to make him a cup of tea. He wants to understand how she can take one look at him and know what he needs, what he’s always needed, even if he hasn’t recognised it for himself yet. And he especially wants to know how out of all the people in his life she is, and still remains, the only one who truly _sees_ him.

Instead what comes out of his mouth is:

“Stay.”

“Sherlock —?” she says a little startled and tries to pull away. He grips her by her upper arms, his thumbs caressing her skin, almost feverishly.

“Please. Stay. Don’t — don’t walk out that door tonight.”

She tilts her head to the side, wary, and regards him. “Why? Why do you want me to stay?” she asks. It’s a simple question, but even Sherlock can register the deeper importance his answer hinges upon. He tries to think of things she would want to hear, things that will keep her from leaving, but he gives up the notion almost immediately. This Molly wasn’t the same simpering Molly he met at Bart’s all those years ago. They had been though hell together, and she deserved far more respect than his base manipulation. She deserved his honesty. He licks his lips.

“Because. It’s cold when you’re not here,” he says, and closes his eyes in embarrassment. That’s not what he meant to say even if it was true. “What I mean is…the flat is less empty with you. And like you said it’s late, so logically it would make sense if you were to remain here. Besides, it’s closer to Bart’s, and…” he trails off.

“And…?” she whispers, her eyes searching his face for something.

“And – and I can’t think when you’re gone. Your absence paralyses me,” he admits, lowering his voice. “You – you make me feel something other than this hateful throbbing ache where my heart used to belong,” he says gripping his chest with one hand. He swallows hard, but he is determined to see this to the end. “You fill me. You are everything that I have left. You have always, _always_ counted and I hate John for dying to get me to see. Is it okay to hate that? To hate the fact that so much _time_ has been _wasted.”_ He clenches his jaw and lowers his head so his forehead touches hers. He closes his eyes. “I am not going to pretend that I am worthy of you. I am selfish, and full of regret, and all I know how to do is take. But you told me a long time ago that I could have you. And I’m asking now. If – if I can have you, Molly Hooper.”

Her breath hitches, and he opens his eyes pulling back slightly so that their noses are almost touching. A few tears spill over her lashes, but her heart-shaped mouth lifts in the barest of smiles.

“You’ve always had me,” she says, and he exhales a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. She brings her hand up to his face and stokes his cheek with her thumb, and he leans into the caress. He bends forward, and because it’s the right thing to do, he places a chaste kiss on those lips.

“Oh,” he breathes pulling back as the sensation tingles on his own. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone with intent before. It is a feeling like no other, and all at once insatiable. He goes back for more, and this time Molly reciprocates, threading her fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck as she deepens the kiss.

His heart swells and he parts his lips, swiping tentatively at the seam of hers until they allow him access to explore the sweetness of her mouth. She presses into him with a soft moan, and their kissing becomes more needy, more desperate. Sherlock can taste the distinct saltiness of tears, but he can’t discern who they are coming from. It very well may be from him at this point, he is so overwhelmed with sensation and emotion. He crushes her to him, and she pushes his silk dressing gown off of his shoulders.

They some how manage to make it back to his bedroom, shedding various articles of clothing in the process, and when he lays her down, her pale skin glowing in the street light through the window, Sherlock’s brain ceases all thought.

There is nothing to deduce about sheer beauty. It just is. Beautiful.

Her skin is like silk as they rock against each other.

Her breath holds the stars like the milky way, and he is destroyed by the pulse and heat of a super nova tearing through his body and soul.

Then, when it feels as if he is going to die out there in that horrible void, through the ashes of grief and fear he is reborn in her nebula.

And after, as they lay there facing each other in the dark breathing each other’s air, he realises for the first time he’s still alive.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'When the Earth tries to shake you off, and you are aimless and adrift, you hold on to everything you have left...'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all who are still following this. I know it has been forever, but like I said this one was a tough one for me to write, and half way through I had a spectacular attack of insecurity on this little story, but I have soldiered on! There will be one more chapter after this as sort of an epilogue, and that is what I am most excited about so stay tuned! And thank you all for your wonderful support.

There was something. Something he was missing.

John.

Why? Why did he arrange everything the way he did? The video, the will? It was almost like he…like he knew. How is that? Was he being threatened? It was possible, and highly likely given whom they worked with.

Once this theory struck him, piercing through the fog like a gong, he had called Lestrade immediately to get him to pull the CCTV footage again of where he was hit just outside Sainsbury’s, and Sherlock dissected every angle. There was a flicker of a shot just as John turned his head to look that may have shown the hit as being deliberate rather than accidental. Lestrade had taken his word for it and amped up the search for the suspect. Now all Sherlock needed was evidence.

Sherlock rifles through his desk drawers frantically. If John was being threatened through correspondence surely Sherlock would have picked up on it, wouldn’t he? No, John usually handled all of the bills and notices, so it’s possible that he would have missed something. He had already poured over John’s blog, and even hacked into his email. There was nothing, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t being harassed. It only meant that John might have been hiding something.

“MOLLY!” Sherlock bellows.

“What?” she calls from the kitchen. “You don’t need to shout, Sherlock. I’m right here.”

Sherlock ignores this. “Where is the rest of the mail?”

“Sorry?” she says coming out into the sitting room. She licks a bit of tomato sauce off of her knuckle.

“The mail. There was a stack of bills — envelopes — here in the desk. Did you do something with them?” He ruffles his hair and puts his hands on his hips.

“I think I threw them out,” she says.

“You…you _what?”_ he says turning to face her.

“I threw them away,” she says frowning. Sherlock’s face pales and he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Why, why would you do that?” he groans.

“They – they were old.”

“They were _mine!_ My things, Molly! You threw them away and they were bloody important!” Sherlock erupts.

Molly flinches, but squares her shoulders. “Well excuse me. I thought I had a right to keep things tidy since I all but live here now,” she says, ruffled.

“No, see that’s where you’re wrong,” Sherlock says turning on her. Distantly a voice in the back of his head tells him to shut up, but the frustration and sudden rage (on top of three days without sleep) boils his blood. “you do _not_ belong here! You’ve never belonged here!”

“Is that what you think then?” she says her voice raising, hands on her hips even through her eyes well up with indignant tears.

 _“Yes!”_ he shouts at the top of his lungs. She reels back, her mouth snapping closed.

“You don’t mean that,” she says.

“Yeah, I do,” he says darkly.

She breathes a shaky sigh out of her mouth, a few tears escaping from the corners of her eyes. Sherlock has a moment of sick glee as seeing her cry just before she whips around and angrily pulls on her jacket, and the reality of what he said finally hits him. He wants to stop her, tell her he didn’t mean it, but he can’t make himself move.

He is powerless when the door to the flat slams with a resounding bang, echoing through out the hollow places in his skull, his heart beating hard in his chest causing his vision to shimmer.

His mobile suddenly rings, startling him out of his reverie, and he pulls it out of his trouser pocket. His eyes grow wide when he sees who it is.

“Lestrade,” he answers. “You have something?”

 _“Yeah…”_ Lestrade says over the phone, his voice tight and wary. _“we found who did it, but —”_

“Do you have them at the station? Are you holding him?” Sherlock interrupts, his hand gripping the phone so hard the plastic casing creaks.

_“We’re processing him right now, but listen, Sherlock it’s not —”_

“Don’t move him! I have to talk to him, I’m on my way,” Sherlock says and disconnects before Lestrade can protest further. He looks down at his phone for a moment wondering if he should call Molly, but abandons the notion and grabs his coat and scarf.

…

“Sherlock —” Lestrade says, a firm hand splayed on his chest holding him back.

“Let me see him, Lestrade!” Sherlock snarls trying to get around the DI and into the small holding room.

“Goddammit, will you bloody _listen!”_ he says trying to force him back, but Sherlock flings his restraining arm off of him and barrels past, banging open the door. “Sherlock!”

The man sitting at the metal table with his head buried in his hands looks up startled, and Sherlock stops in his tracks.

No. This couldn’t be John’s murderer. It was all wrong.

It had to be some kind of mistake, or sick joke.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock accosts the man.

“I’m sorry, who —?” the man starts.

“Sherlock —” Lestrade says tugging him back by his elbow.

Sherlock shakes him off. “What is this? It isn’t him, it _can’t_ be him!” he exclaims throwing a hand out in front of him in a disgusted manner. “He doesn’t fit the profile, Lestrade. I’ve never seen this man in my life, and he’s clearly not vengeance material if his shirt sleeves are anything to go by!”

“My shirt sleeves…?” the man says.

Before Lestrade can do anything, Sherlock snaps and bangs both hands on the table on either side and glares into the suspect’s face. His deduction spill out like machine gun fire.

“You _killed_ a man with your sport’s car. A man outside of Sainsbury’s on the 11th day of April. It was a Tuesday, early in the morning hardly anyone around, zero eye witnesses, and only one dodgy street camera. Given the direction of the tyre tread at the scene of the crime, evidence indicates you didn’t even _stop._ So why? Why now with the guilt? Why after all this time? You’ve been wringing the cuffs of your sleeves for over an hour out of contrition, that much is clear, but why come in now and confess? Are you being blackmailed? Forced to take the blame for the real culprit? TELL ME!” he bellows, fist connecting with the metal with a thunderous bang.

“I’m sorry!” the man says breaking down, tears springing to his eyes. “I didn’t mean to! I – I wanted to go back for him but I couldn’t! I have two children, and one more strike against me and my wife’ll take them away from me! Please! Please! Inspector, you said – said if I cooperated you would help me get a decent lawyer! Please!” 

Lestrade grabs Sherlock and practically has to drag him out into the corridor as he suddenly lunges across the table.

 _“Stop lying!”_ he snarls and the door slams closed.

“Take a walk!” Lestrade orders, shoving him away from the holding room. Sherlock drags his fingers through his frazzled hair.

“Are you blind, Inspector? That man is _not_ who killed John!”

“It checks out, Sherlock,” he says.

“No. It — no. I know someone was after him. I do. It makes sense. They’ve done this before, my enemies. They’ve tried to get to me through him. It’s the only explanation,” Sherlock says.

Lestrade regards him for a moment, his brows coming together in a furrow of concern. “When was the last time you slept?”

“What does that even matter?” he spits.

The DI sighs and wipes a hand over his weary face. “My office. Now,” he says and marches off down the corridor not bothering to check if Sherlock was following. He closes the door firmly when they enter and draws the blinds over the window. He turns to Sherlock and takes a few steps towards him. “Listen to me very carefully when I tell this to you, Sherlock, because I need you to understand: John’s death was an _accident.”_

Sherlock reels back as if he were physically slapped. “If you think for one _second_ that that’s true —”

“It is true, Sherlock! You’re looking for things that aren’t even there!” Lestrade says raising his voice to a shout.

“Shut up.”

“You’re obsessed!”

“I said _shut up,”_ he grits out, positively shaking with rage.

“Okay, where’s the proof, huh? You tell me what you’ve found to _prove_ that someone was after John and I’ll shut my mouth.”

“I gave you my proof!”

“No, you gave me leads and hunches! That’s all Sherlock. Not one sodden piece of tangible evidence.”

“Six months, Lestrade. _Six. Months._ He had Mycroft handle his affair six months before he died. He even set up a video testimony! Quite extensive planning, don’t you think? I’ve been over and over it, and it doesn’t make any sense as to why he would do this if he wasn’t being threatened! You’re just relieved it’s over; a nice neat confession in your back pocket. You’re just seeing what you want to see, and that makes you a blistering _idiot,”_ he says, heart pounding with anger and adrenaline.

Lestrade’s patience, which had been admirable so far, finally breaks and he rounds on Sherlock crowding into the other man’s space. 

“I’m not the one who’s only seeing what they want to, Sherlock! God, fucking look at yourself! You haven’t slept, you haven’t eaten, and for weeks you’ve been too obsessed to see what’s right in front of your face! You saw the man, you bloody deduced the sorry bastard. You know it was him. But that isn’t good enough for you. You want someone to suffer in spades just like you are; you want them to pay through pain or death and you want it to be merited; _righteous_ even. So you created a villain that you could punish justly, am I right?”

“You know _nothing,”_ Sherlock hisses, rising to his full height and glaring at the other man.

“You need to let it go, Sherlock. You need to let it go so you can let _John_ go.”

With snapping fury Sherlock whips around and grabs the first thing he can get his hands on — which in this case turns out to be the ceramic mug sitting on Lestrade’s desk — and hurtles it at the nearest wall. It shatters apart, old coffee seeping down in muddy brown tracks to pool at the baseboard.

A silence permeates the room; the only sound Sherlock’s heavy breathing as his struggles to control himself, his back to the DI.

Finally, Lestrade breaks it. “You’re the most rational man I know. Don’t let your grief blind you.”

Sherlock bows his head, the anger whooshing out of him as if he were struck in the gut. He takes a quaking breath and puts a hand over his eyes. He takes a few steps before collapsing abruptly to one knee, all of the strength running out of him where he stands like pale watercolour. Lestrade hurries over and crouches down in front of him, a steady hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t understand, Greg,” Sherlock croaks, the exhaustion slamming into him full force. It takes gargantuan effort to meet his friend’s eyes. “It can’t be an accident. It has to be this. Because if it were an accident there would have been absolutely nothing I could have done to stop it. No one to take the blame for the world being that much darker now that he’s not in it. It’s completely _random_ otherwise; absolutely no reason why he had to die. What am I meant to do with that? Can you tell me? What am I to do now that he’s gone?”

Lestrade brings his hand up to lightly grasp the scruff of his neck in a way that grounds Sherlock to the present. He peers into Sherlock’s face, eyes soft yet hard at the same time. 

He considers his words carefully when he answers. “When the Earth tries to shake you off, and you are aimless and adrift, you hold on to everything you have left, you hear me? That is what you do. What John would have wanted.”

The veracity of the words are sharp, slicing their truth into the core of him, and it hurts, oh yes it hurts, but it rings through out him like a bell, piercing the shroud-like fog that had descended upon him all those months ago. In the back of his mind he hears the words that had nearly choked him with grief, but now instead of drowning, it feels like air for the first time…

_‘I love you Sherlock. With all my heart…’_

Suddenly he’s being pulled into a familiar embrace smelling of roses and honey, a scent he would recognise anywhere, and he opens his eyes not realising he had closed them in the first place.

“Molly…?” he breathes pulling back so he can look into her shining eyes. “How did…”

“Greg told me you were on your way over,” she says softly. “Thought I should be here for you.”

Guilt and shame suddenly overwhelms him, and in a panic he grips her as if she would vanish any second. “I didn’t — I didn’t mean what I said. Any of it.”

“I know,” she says kissing him. He kisses back hungrily and frantic.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He presses his lips to hers over an over in supplication.

“I know, love,” Molly says in between breaths. She twines her fingers into his hair anchoring him to her solid presence.

“I never say — I never tell you —”

“Shh,” Molly soothes pulling away, her fingers smoothing the distress on his brow and caressing his cheekbones. “Let’s go home.”

Sherlock breathes deeply and tips his head back to the ceiling. 

With tears running down his face, he smiles and holds on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dedicated to T.R. Rensink 02/09/2009_


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! It's been a very emotional piece for me to write, and I am so glad I got to share it with all of you. Thank you so much for those that have dropped by with kudos or have taken the time to comment. I hope the fluff in this chapter makes up for all of the heartache I've put you all through. Anyway. Enjoy.  
> xxHoney.

_Sherlock is bent over his microscope observing the potassium solution and jotting down a few notes, when a faint noise penetrates his concentration. His hand stills its frantic scribbling for a moment before deciding to ignore the noise, and he peers back into the eyepieces._

_For some reason the potassium wasn’t reacting properly with the —_

_There it was again, and he looks up to the ceiling, cocking his head to the right and listening intently. It was a familiar sound of distress, one he had grown accustomed to hearing in the dead of night as of late. He gets up from the table and makes his way to the hall._

_Another muffled cry floats down from the stairs, and Sherlock waits at the bottom with his hand on the hand rail waiting to see if the nightmares take a turn for the worst. It is quiet for a few minutes, and at first Sherlock thinks the moment has passed when a strangled shout pierces the silence followed by startled sobbing._

_Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time._

_“John?” he says._

_He opens the door to John’s room. “John? It’s all right, I’m here.” He flicks on the light._

_The little boy sitting on the bed raises his head from where it was buried against the tops of his knees, and blinks in confusion, wide eyes brimming with tears, and mouth turned down at the corners. His breath hitches, "D - Daddy?"_

_“Well who else would it be?” Sherlock says softly in mock irritation coming to sit on the edge of the bed. In a flurry of movement, his son suddenly launches himself into his arms and buries his face into the crook of his neck. Sherlock gathers him close with a little chuckle, pressing a kiss into his sandy brown hair. His boy, his brave boy, is trying not to cry regardless of the fact that he is clearly terrified. “That’s my little soldier,” he says and rubs small circles into his back._

_“Did I wake you up?” John says meekly after a while, head still resting on Sherlock’s shoulder as he absently plays with the buttons on his shirt._

_“No. I was awake,” Sherlock says and pulls away so he could brush the remaining tears off of his son’s face. His brown eyes blink tiredly at him, but there is a lingering curiosity dancing in their depths._

_“Were you doing an esperiment?” he chirps, lisping the word through the gap his milk teeth have left behind._

_“I was.”_

_“For a murder?” he asks, grinning in glee._

_Sherlock leans in conspiratorially. “I’m not supposed to tell you. What would your mother say?”_

_“We don’t have to tell her. She doesn’t have to know!” John says earnestly, bouncing slightly in his lap. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”_

_“Oh you are? Who told you that?” Sherlock says._

_“Uncle Mycroft. He said one day, if I am really, really good at keeping secrets I could work for him. But he said I have to practise —”_

_“Your uncle is insufferable. I forbid you from working with him,” Sherlock grumbles._

_“But he said it could be cool. Like a spy. Spies keeps secrets. And drive fast cars and have cool things.”_

_“Have you been watching more James Bond with Lestrade?” Sherlock says._

_“He let me watch ‘Diamonds are Forever’ in his office the day you forgot to pick me up from school,” he beams, and Sherlock rolls his eyes._

_“I didn’t forget. I was diverted en route on my way to retrieve you,” he says, and John narrows his eyes scrutinising him._

_“Mum says you use big words when you know you’re wrong,” he says._

_Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “If you’re planning on making a living on keeping secrets you aren’t doing a very good job.”_

_John realising his folly, frowns, thinking for a moment. Finally he looks up and says decisively, “I don’t think Mum would mind if you knew that.”_

_“Oh really?”_

_“Yeah. She says no one can correct their beahviour if they aren’t aware their behaviour needs correcting,” he recites._

_Sherlock glares at him through a burgeoning grin. He brings up his hand and crooks his fingers under John’s chin, tickling him as he laughs and tries to squirm away. John manages to get to his knees and topple into him causing them both to lose their balance and fall backwards on the bed._

_“Oof,” Sherlock grunts, and his son peers down at him._

_“I win,” he smiles, and Sherlock brings his hand up again to tickle him under the arms, but John dodges and rolls off of his chest and onto his back next to him._

_They lay there silently for a while, their heads tucked close to one another before John says in a small voice,_

_“What if they don’t like me at my new school?” he whispers._

_“Nonsense,” Sherlock dismisses. “You are annoyingly good natured. It’s impossible for you not to be liked. As Nana Hudson says, you're 'charming'.”_

_“But what if I’m not smart enough?”_

_“John Hamish, you are a Holmes, there is no way you aren’t smart enough.”_

_“I’m not like you and Uncle Mycroft I’m —”_

_Sherlock props himself up on one elbow and turns to face his son. “No. You are nothing like Mycroft and me. You are_ so much more. _I won’t let you forget that, and I won’t tolerate you thinking you are anything less, is that understood?”_

_John looks down not fully convinced, but he nods anyway._

_“Come here,” Sherlock says and tucks him back under the covers before sidling up next to him, an arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders. “Try and go back to sleep. I’ll wait until you do. You have a big day tomorrow.”_

_“Can you tell me a story?” John says curling into Sherlock’s side, his head on his chest._

_“Which story do you want to hear?”_

_John thinks for a moment before answering, “The one where you met the army doctor with my name.”_

_Sherlock smiles, pulling the duvet up a little more. He sighs contentedly, and in a soft voice begins,_

_“One day I was working at St. Bart’s when a curious man with a cane let me borrow his phone…”_


End file.
